


Burning

by allonsytotumblr



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Free Verse, Gen, Hope, Loss, Mourning, Poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-28
Updated: 2017-09-28
Packaged: 2019-01-06 08:23:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12207450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allonsytotumblr/pseuds/allonsytotumblr
Summary: Arien's experience following the death of the trees.





	Burning

**Author's Note:**

> Written as part of Silmarillion Writer's Guild Silmarillion40 event.

I.

 I am like the fire  
that comes from wet wood,  
smoky and dull.  
Evil has taken away  
Laurelin  
And Telperion.  
I mourn  
as much as Nienna and Yavanna.  
But their tears  
and song  
bring forth two fruits.  
And my sorrow gives  
Nothing.  
Fire is no good for healing  
only for destruction.  
And I am too weak  
and too far away  
to destroy Morgoth.

 

II.

 I am alone  
smoking and scorched.  
Varda finds me  
She is made of stars and darkness,  
comets and void.  
Everything in the heavens.  
“Arien,” she says,  
extending her hand.  
Constellations twinkle on her fingers.  
“Come with me.”  
I come.  
You cannot refuse a thousand galaxies.  
My fiery hand does not burn hers.  
There is no air for fire to burn  
in space.

III.

 She leads me  
to the dead skeletons of the trees.  
Besides them rests  
a boat,  
beautiful.  
Containing the fruit of Laurelin,  
glowing  
with the light of a tiny candle  
compared to my tree.  
Yet,  
it is the last part of Laurelin left alive.  
I will protect it with all the fire in my body.  
Varda knows this.  
“Take this vessel into the east, and return from the west,”  
she tells me.  
I know what to do.  
How to control this ship.  
When to depart. When to return.  
I was born for this.

  
IV.

  
I walk towards the vessel  
eager, like flames licking at straw.  
The voice of Laurelin  
calls to me  
Arien.  
When I touch the fruit,  
it is white hot.  
Sparks fly from my hands.  
And I burn brightly  
again.  
I am the flickering of a torch in a cave by an explorer,  
a candle lit in a sacred ceremony.  
I am the fire burning on the hearth of every home,  
the billowing fire of a dragon’s breath, destroying.  
I am  
the sharp flare of a match.  
I am ready.  
The moorings are cut,  
falling away.  
The ship lifts off  
and  
I  
fly.


End file.
